As promised,
THE GERMAN TOURIST STORY
Mexican Hat, Utah, (named after a sombrero-shaped rock formation on the edge of town) is a dusty little crossroads village a couple of cycling hours north of Monument Valley. I had stopped there for lunch at a TexMex cantina and to pick up supplies at the general store. After resting for a while on the porch of the store, letting my tacos and refried beans settle into my GI tract, I grabbed the handlebars of my steed and started threading my way on foot across the busy gravel parking lot shared with the cantina and a motel. As I passed a mid-sized American sedan, a well dressed gentleman (no socks and sandals) of about 60 years got out, smiled and and spoke to me......in German.
I had encountered plenty of Euro-tourists on this trip but this was the first time one had spoken to me in his native tongue. Now, my language skills are limited to a bit of broken Spanish learned in grade school nearly 40 years ago, so I smiled back and said "Sorry, I don't speak German." He quickly switched to perfect English, with only the slightest accent, and apologized for assuming I was German. No problem, says I, commenting on the fact that there seemed to be more Germans touring the Southwest US than east-coast Americans. Easterners are more likely to travel abroad than visit their own country. He agreed, saying it was a shame and that many Germans prefer visiting the grand scenery of the American west to any of the urban centers of the world. In fact, this was his fouth visit. Feeling somewhat like a stranger in my own homeland, I politely asked why he assumed that I was not an American.
A brief pause, then he says that I don't look like an American cyclist. (see picture above) No tight clothing. No bright colors. American cyclists all look like professional racers. True, I say, I'm often snubbed by 'serious' cyclists for my appearence.
He continued, adding that Americans all ride mountain bikes. It sometimes seems that way, I agreed. On this two week trip every American bicyclist I encountered was on a mountain bike.
Another pause. Then he states that the most unAmerican thing about me was that I actually used my bike to travel. Americans only drive around with their bikes mounted on top of their cars. He didn't think we rode them at all. I totally crack-up laughing, congratulated him on his insight, wished him well and headed south. Proud to be an honorary German.
Post Script. In the course of my two weeks in Utah I met only two cycle tourists along the highways: A German and a German-speaking Swiss. And for three days on a remote jeep trail I followed the fresh track of a lone cyclist, but was never able to catch him. An SUV going the other way said he was just a couple miles down the trail. And that he was German.
